The Glass Arrow(4)

He’s wearing a symbol on his breast pocket. A red bird in flight. A cardinal. Bian has told me this is the symbol for the city of Glasscaster, the capitol. This must be where he plans on taking me.

He’s ripping the net away, and for a moment I think he’s freeing me, he’s letting me go. But this is ridiculous. I’m who he wants.

Then, as though I’m an animal, he weaves his uncalloused, unblistered fingers into my black, spiraled hair, and jerks my head back so hard that I arch halfway off the ground. I hiss at the burn jolting across my scalp. He points to one of the Trackers, who’s holding a small black box. Thinking this is a gun, I close my eyes and brace for the shot that will end my life. But no shot comes.

“Open your eyes, and smile,” the Magnate says. With his other hand he is fixing his wave of stylishly silver hair, which has become ruffled in the chase.

I do open my eyes, and I focus through my quaking vision on the black box. I’ve heard Bian talk about these things. Picture boxes. They freeze your image, so that it can be preserved forever. Like a trophy.

I’m going to remember this moment forever, too. And I don’t even need his stupid picture box.





CHAPTER 2

I’VE BEEN LOCKED UP one hundred and seven days.

That’s one hundred and seven days of meal supplement pills crammed down my throat, skin scrubbings, and whippings.

That’s eighteen fights I’ve won, six escape attempts I’ve failed, and nine runs in solitary.

That’s four auctions, three I’ve managed to avoid.

Tomorrow is number five, and I’m not going, even if it means taking down the Governess herself. I’m not getting sold. Not now. Not ever.

I walk to the far corner of the recreation yard, the side nearest to the rising sun. Not that I can see it—you can’t see anything through the gray-green haze that blankets this poisoned city—but I still remember what it looks like, and how it feels on my face. For now, that’s all I have.

I glance behind me at the facility they call the Garden. The black glass walls reflect the light from the electric lamps that hang from the red sloping roof. Most of the girls are huddling under a wooden gazebo near the doors. We get let out each morning before breakfast, and they’re all waiting, tired and hungry, for the first chance to get back inside where it’s warm. The iron benches and neat bricked walkways all stand empty until our afternoon break, leaving the lower part of the yard clear.

But I’m not alone. I look up at the black camera box staring down from the high chain-link fence that surrounds the property. It adjusts its position as I approach, tracking me as I move closer to the boundary. I give my nastiest look and gesture rudely, but the lens continues to stare, unblinking.

The buzzing of the fence grows louder as I near. It’s electric; every once in a while a stray cat or bird will get fried when they venture too close. Most of the girls keep their distance, and most of the men who come to gawk from the street outside do too.

The grass is a little longer here; the workers that cut it short never venture this far away from the main viewing areas. No sense in making it nice if no one that matters has a chance to see it. I pull off my pointy, knee-high boots, flexing my feet, and kneel on the ground, feeling the dew soak through the skintight uniform dress.

As my eyes drift closed, I wind my fingers in the grass and pretend I’m back in the mountains. The birds are chirping and the branches are clicking together as the breeze rustles the pine needles. I’m bringing home fish from the stream, and Salma’s there waiting to cook it, while Tam and Nina chase each other around the fire. Bian and Metea are there too, but the vision fades when I see them, and my stomach feels sour and hollow.

I’m not in the mountains. I’m stuck inside this electric fence, listening to the distant beat of the music from the all-night clubs in the Black Lanes and smelling garbage in the air.

And Tam and Nina are with Salma, and that scares me straight through. Salma can take care of them, but she’s never had to before. She never wanted to. I can only hope that they’re all taking care of each other, and hiding from Trackers like I taught them.

My hands have turned so that my palms face the sky, and I sing, softly so the others don’t hear me. I sing to Her—Mother Hawk, guardian of the afterlife—and try to find comfort knowing she will keep the souls of my family safe. Without any way to receive word from home, prayer is all I have.

“Told you she’s cracked.”

I jolt to my feet, turning sharply at the same time. Four girls are standing before me, all in the same black, low-cut dress. None of them are wearing shoes—probably how they managed to sneak up on me. One of them has bright red hair, cut at an angle to her chin—Daphne, my half-friend, who can only barely stand to be near me when I’m not embarrassing her, and refuses to acknowledge me at all when I am.

I don’t blame her. We have nothing in common besides the fact that we’re both stuck here. She’s the daughter of a computer-programming Merchant, and has prepared her whole life for auction. She’s looking away now, arms crossed in a tight shield over her chest.

My shoulders rise and I steel myself for a confrontation. I learned early on not to look for help within these walls. Everyone here is out for themselves.

It’s a curvy girl with a turned-up nose who’s called me cracked. Her white hair is braided in two ropes that reach down to her waist, and she’s painting circles on her cheek with the end of one. I think her name is Lotus—she’s only been here since the last auction. I bare my teeth at her and she takes a quick step back.